


all we need is a place to start

by Somedeepmystery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Banter, Capture, Confessions, F/M, Fingering, Happy and Hopeful Ending, Resolved Romantic Tension, Romance, Sex, Tight Spaces, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and sexual tension, fake fiance again, gaby pretending she doesn't care about things that she cares about a lot, if not quite tied up with a bow, inconvenient erections, let's resolve that tension, like illya, scantily clad spies, this really shouldn't be foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28063797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: When Gaby's and Illya's cover is blown on a mission, they find themselves in a very tight spot. Things come up, but they have to get out of trouble before they can get into it again -- with each other.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Comments: 20
Kudos: 51
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2020





	all we need is a place to start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roadhymns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadhymns/gifts).



> Rated E for Extra tight spaces, Erections and, of course, Explicit sex. *wink*

**Act One**

On every mission, no matter how straightforward it appeared, no matter how textbook things seemed to be going, there always came a point where it looked like the bad guys might win. Some of these moments were more convincing than others.

Gaby thought this was one of the convincing ones.

A couple of large men had snatched her from the charity party she had been attending inside the hotel she had been attending. She had intended to make the rounds, rub elbows and be seen, maintaining her status as a rich socialite for her cover. She hadn’t needed a decoder to figure out that somewhere things had gone wrong.

She was playing at innocent confusion, protesting in a tone of offended grace as they dragged her out into the alley behind the hotel. Her stomach dropped when she saw what was waiting for her.

Illya lay unconscious on the shiny, damp cobblestones wearing nothing but his undershirt and briefs. The tuxedo he was supposed to wear to the party was piled up beside him. Three men with very large guns surrounded him.

Gaby started toward him instinctively, almost hesitated, then remembered—her mind working like lightning—they were supposed to be engaged. She gasped like a fainthearted lady and threw herself forward, hoping to at least get a look at what state he was in. Before could, however, her newly acquired guards seized her by the arms and yanked her back. Complaining loudly, like the high society woman she was supposed to be, she demanded to know what was happening, called Illya’s cover name with distress, but to no avail. They manhandled her to stand at the back of a black Ford Popular that was idling next to the rubbish bins, the exhaust lingering in the cool air. It was not the car she would expect men working for their mark, Willard Loftus, to drive. Had a competitor sent them? Or was this Loftus’s disposal team?

A man, short, balding, with a belly as big as his shoulders were broad, came toward her, pulling a scanner from his pocket. She took a step away from him and tried not to look like a woman who was already calculating how many ways she could hurt him.

A _single_ thug in an alley? No problem. Five of them? Armed? By herself? That would likely be a death sentence. 

Plus, there were those guns jabbed into Illya’s back. Gaby stared at him as Scanner Guy came closer. He was completely unmoving, a bruise darkening along the side of his face, and it unnerved her. After this was over, she was going to make him pay for letting them get the jump on him. She huffed out a breath and lifted her chin, pushing down her rising concern.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “What did you do to my fiancé?”

“He ain’t your fiancé?” One man said in a heavy local accent. “He’s KGB or my name ain’t Bill the Banger.”

“I’m not your mother,” Gaby said in the haughty accent she had adopted for the mission. “How should I know what your name is? I insist you leave us alone at once or I will tell Mr. Loftus!”

They laughed. “Who do you think sent us?”

The man with the scanner flicked a switch, and the device whirred to life. “There’s been some mistake,” she insisted, trying to sidestep away, but it was useless because the scanner immediately lit up like a beacon and wailed loudly. The shoulder of her dress, her earrings, her necklace, her shoes… She clenched her jaw. When Illya woke up, she was going to kill him. _**If** he wakes up_, a little voice chimed in and she took another deep breath to ward off the feeling of nausea that rose with the thought.

“Take off the dress,” drawled a smooth, upper class voice, and Gaby whipped her head around toward it as a sixth man stepped out into the light from the fire door.

“ _Excuse me_?” Sure, she’d seen it coming, but that didn’t mean she was going to just comply.

He crouched down, pulled the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it out between the cobbles. Then he pressed his pistol into Illya’s temple like he knew exactly what she had been thinking. Gaby glared at him, squeezing her fist and digging her nails into her palm as absolute fury swept through her. The man’s eyes flicked up to lock onto hers. “I said, _take off the dress_.”

Gaby held this new man’s gaze, Illya’s slack face and bruised temple far too compromising. With an indignant exhale through her nose, she yanked the fastening on the shoulder, careless of the fragile snaps, the delicate hand-stitched flowers, and tore it away. Shrugging the opposing shoulder to slip it free, she unzipped the side and let the lavish, green material fall to the ground, leaving her in a full black slip with a V-neckline and lots of lace that exposed her bra. At least the bodice covered the rest of her underthings well enough. 

She crossed her arms and glared.

“Now the shoes.” His tone was patronizing, and she kicked them off hard enough that one the men behind him took a block heel to the shin. The man with the gun stared back at her and dragged the muzzle of his gun off Illya’s temple and stood to his feet.

Stepping closer, he extended his hand out to her. Gaby stared at him defiantly until he waggled his fingers. She could only assume he meant for her to give him the jewelry. With a roll of her eyes, she snapped off the large clip-on earrings first, then jerked the necklace from around her neck and slapped the lot into his palm. 

With a smirk, he waggled his fingers again. “You forgot one, sweetheart.”

Gaby flashed a glance down at her hand and the gaudy fake diamond glittering there. She felt the first pulse of relief since they’d _escorted_ her out the back door. It wasn’t the faux black pearl from Rome, though the similarities in how she had lost the first engagement ring Illya had ever given her was not lost on her. She twisted the bit of jewelry off and threw it at him.

He gave her a flat look and crouched down to pick it up. Beside her, the scanner turned on again, this time without the instant alert, and Gaby realized she was shaking. 

It was something she couldn’t quite control — a mix of fear, worry, anger, and just plain adrenaline — and she hoped they couldn’t see it. As the scanner was waved over her, Rome once more came to mind, Illya’s cool hands clamping onto her leg, blue eyes looking up at her. 

_“It will be okay.”_

_Well_ , she thought, _you’re close by now, but I don’t think your speed is going to get either of us out of this one_.

“She’s clear,” Scanner Guy called, and stepped back, tucking the device away.

“Pick him up.” The leader nodded toward Illya as the other man grabbed Gaby and tugged her arms behind her back. Several men reached for her unconscious partner, hefting him up.

“What are you doing with him?” she demanded, then flinched as she felt icy steel close over her wrist. “Ah, ouch!” She hissed, and played at struggling as he worked to close the other cuff. “Get your hands off me!” She shoved back into him, with intent this time, and he lost his grip. Gaby took several dancing steps away, shaking her wrists inside the cuffs to test them, and watched as, with effort, the others shoved Illya’s body into the boot of the Ford Popular Deluxe they’d had her backed against.

“Better cuff him too,” the leader said. “Just in case.”

As they obeyed, he looked at Gaby and gestured with the pistol. “Madam, if you would join your fiancé.”

“What about our clothes?” she demanded. “That dress was _very_ expensive!”

He laughed. “I’ll tell you what. When we’ve taken all the bugs out of them, you can have them back. But I can’t promise they’ll still be in good condition.” He waved the pistol. “Now. Get. In.”

Gaby raised her chin, all bravado, then took a breath through her nose as a spike of anxiety tried to take hold. She looked at the small space that Illya’s too-tall frame left for her, and felt panic press hard on her chest, clutch at her throat. Solo was across the city, his cover hopefully still intact. He would be back in two hours, but there was little chance he would know where they had gone. 

The thug took hold of her arm to guide her, and she jerked away, moving forward on her own. Her dark eyes searched the alley, the walls, the street, everywhere for something, _anything_ that could help her. There was nothing. She clambered into the boot, awkward without use of her hands, and tucked herself into the tiny space in front of Illya.

“Please, I’m cold,” she called, using that more innocent voice again, hoping for a reprieve from the cuffs at least. It was true enough, her exposed legs and shoulders already pricked with goose-flesh.

The leader raised an eyebrow, but one of the other men crouched down and came back with Illya’s stained tuxedo shirt. He tossed it in on top of her with a sneer. “Here ya go, mi’lady. Good luck gettin’ it on with them cuffs.” His fellows laughed. The leader put his hand on the lid of the boot, and Gaby compulsively held her breath as he lowered it and entombed her in darkness.

**Act Two**

It took Gaby longer than she liked to get her breathing under control in the dark confines of the Ford’s boot. Illya was a dead weight behind her, leaning heavily into her every time the car sped up, and her concern for him added to the scratching, wild thing trying to take her over. She wanted desperately to look him over him for injuries, check his pulse, anything. Was he even breathing?

The worry brought with it a rush of jumbled thoughts and conflicting emotions, isolated memories of a million moments — of all the ‘ _hadn’t-beens_ ’ between them. A flash of every ‘ _almost_ ’ since she had tackled him in Rome. Every time he had looked at her with those eyes, every time he had seemed to reach for her only to abort at the last minute, every interruption, every long sleepless night she had stood outside his hotel room door with her fist raised to knock, only to uncurl her fingers and turn away. 

There was no point in thinking of those things now.

The air around her was tainted with the scent of metal and oil, a hint of exhaust, and Illya—his favorite aftershave. It was an oddly comforting mix, familiar, but there was no safety there. Tucking the thought away, she tried to focus on what she could do. It was difficult. The edge of the unlined boot pressed hard into her knee and she shuffled back, pressing herself more snugly against Illya, twisting her hands out of the way from between them. It was remarkably uncomfortable, but Illya’s body was warm and it was a relief from the cool air that easily sank through the thin material of her slip. His shirt was bunched up near her belly, useless.

Sighing, she tested the cuffs around her wrists and found that her earlier antics had been moderately successful; the cuff on her right wrist was loose. She tugged and twisted her hand, but it wasn’t loose enough to get free. She cursed.

Behind her, Illya inhaled deeply. For a moment he leaned into her, and she felt his breath against the top of her head. He hummed and murmured something in Russian she couldn’t make out over the sounds of the car.

“Illya!” Relief flashed bright, and she took a deep breath, like a band had been loosened from around her chest. She tried to elbow him. “Hey!”

This time the breath he took in was sharp, and his body went rigid. He jerked, and Gaby heard him hit his head and grunt in pain. “Where are we?”

“Car boot.” Her answer was succinct, almost biting, a rubber band effect of the intensity of her relief.

“Are you all right?”

“Did you miss the part where we are in a car boot?”

Illya sighed, and his breath ruffled her hair, still tense. “Did they hurt you?”

“No, no harm done,” she assured him. “Which is more that I can say for that gown you had me in.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ ,” she said, feeling flushed despite the cold. “They took our clothes. Thanks to _someone_ and his obsession with tracking everything! Fat lot of good it’s going to do us now.”

“Wait—“ then, as if sensing his own state of undress, he said, “ _ah_.” Then he sucked in a stiff breath. “I will _kill_ them!”

“Yes, exactly. I’m freezing!”

“ _Gaby,_ ” he growled, but she knew that fury wasn’t aimed at her. She knew she shouldn’t _like_ the protective, possessive note in his voice.

“Nothing like _that_. They were very professional.” 

She heard him exhale through his nose, not at all mollified, and quickly added, “I am still wearing my slip. You’ve had me in shorter dresses.”

He seemed to relax a little with this info, taking a few deep breaths that pushed his hard chest against her back. 

“Are you cuffed too?” he asked when he had sufficiently calmed. 

“Yes.” 

She felt him try to move around and her knee jammed into the sharp edge of metal again. She pushed back, trying to squirm into a better position. 

Illya went very still. “Gaby, wait.”

“Stop it, we’re not going anywhere, there’s barely room for us to fit at all.”

“Stop _moving_ ,” he hissed.

“My knee is against something sharp.” She wriggled back some more, tucking herself as neatly as possible into the curve of his body, trying to get her knee off whatever was stabbing into her.

“All right just— _wait_ —”

Gaby stilled then too as she felt something hard push into the back of her upper thigh. She tucked her cuffed hands between them, trying to find what it was. “Do you have a gun?”

Illya’s tight growl of “ _No_ ” reached her ears the same moment her mind caught up with the fact that he couldn’t possibly have a gun, and her palm slid over exactly _what_ was pressing into her. The firm line beneath his briefs that could only be one thing.

 _Oh_ , she thought, yet she didn’t move her hands, leaving them right where they were, some bit of curiosity getting the best of her. “Really?”

“It is just friction,” he ground out. “And I was unconscious a minute ago.”

That was true enough, she supposed. She hadn’t been thinking much about exactly what part of him she had been wiggling her ass against.

“Your hands are not helping.” He said this very stiffly. Gaby realized that she had basically cupped his shape between her palms and, even though she had much more important things to think about at the moment, she couldn’t help but take note. She could blame her mechanic brain for how swiftly she took an impression of his size, (nearly a decade of grabbing various tools without looking), and she blamed her spy brain for how she did so automatically, despite the desperate nature of their situation.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t really have anywhere else to put them.”

He made an indecipherable sound, moved, then stopped, since it only pressed him more firmly against her hands. Gaby cleared her throat and tried to keep her hands very still.

For a moment, the rumble of the tires on the road under them filled the edgy silence between them. Illya lifted his head as if he could look around.

“We have to get out of here. Do you know where they are taking us?”

“Yes, they told me their entire plan while you were unconscious in the street,” she said tersely.

“There is no need for sarcasm,” he growled back.

Gaby drew her lips into a thin line. He was right, not that she would tell him so. It was just that being this close, having her hands where they were… it was _distracting_ , and it made her tense. She imagined he wasn’t feeling much better. “How did they get the drop on you, anyway?”

“They waited inside my room.” He didn’t seem inclined to give more details. Probably angry his many security measures had failed him.

“How did we get blown?”

“Doesn’t matter. Right now we need to get out of here before we get wherever we are going.”

“I have a lock pick,” she said, “I just need to—” She tried to twist her hand again. Illya hissed, and Gaby felt a flush sweep up her body. _“Scheisse_.” She tried to put some space between them, but there was no use. There was nowhere else to go.

“Where is the pick?” Illya asked, his voice stilted, and Gaby tried to relax so she could think a little clearer.

She turned her palms toward her own body, but Illya was still rock hard against the back of her hands. Clearing her throat, she said, “It’s in my bra.”

Illya was silent. She could still feel his breath in her hair. Then he shifted slightly. “What part?”

“The lining,” she said, feeling more of that flush and annoyed with herself for it. “In the middle.” It would be the easiest place for her to reach in a hurry, but not with her hands behind her back. Obviously an oversight. She tried to duck her head into her chest but it was useless, she couldn’t reach it.

“Can you turn around?”

His voice was raspy, strained, and Gaby took a steadying breath and shuffled sideways, trying to roll over. She brushed tightly against Illya and heard his sharp intake of breath but ignored it, scooting a little at a time. Her knee scraped along that sharp edge, bumped the top of the boot and her shoulder grated against something rough, but she continued until she had gotten all the way around.

Now pressed front to front, their legs took up too much space, and she had to slide one between his and sling the other over his hip. She curved into him in order to fit, and she felt his lips brush her hairline, his erection press into her belly. They both held very still, focused on breathing.

It was almost completely dark inside the boot and she couldn’t even make out the shape of him, just an impression that he was there, a paler bit of darkness. She felt a brush of light stubble against her brow. The scent of his aftershave was stronger now, and she let herself take it in as her panic with the confined space tried to reassert itself.

“Can you move up?” he asked. “I will try to shift down, but I do not have a lot of room.”

“That’s what you get for being so tall,” she remarked, and she felt his lips form a smile against her hair. Ignoring the little flutter _that_ ignited, she tried to brace a foot against something so she could push up. Her body slid over his. She heard him swear, and gritted her teeth against the pang of arousal it caused. He managed to wriggle downward a few inches, his legs curling up behind her. It was awkward; her leg — knee bent — was clamped between his thighs, the other wrapped around his torso. His chin and cheek moved over her face, his lips brushing against the corner of her jaw and then down her neck as they worked together to get him into a position that would let him reach the pick.

The uncomfortable arching of her back, her neck kinked to the side of the small space, was not enough to override the arousal caused by Illya’s breath cascading over her chest, or his lips brushing her collarbone, then lower. How many times had she imagined him doing this in the night, in the cozy confines of her bed? More than she would willingly admit to.

He used the tip of his nose to get the lace of her slip out of the way, and Gaby shivered as he traced the line of her bra, using it to map his way, occasionally slipping just beneath the delicate lace edging. She held her breath as his lips felt for the center of the material. The car jostled and his mouth dragged over her skin—warm, soft, maddening.

It didn’t matter that they were in danger — she was used to danger; they were in some kind of mortal peril every other week — but Illya’s lips and breath on her breasts, seeping through the material of her bra to warm her nipples… she could not be immune. They drew into tight peaks she was sure he could feel, and her pussy spasmed, growing wet as her body responded to the stimulus.

Ignoring it, she tried to shift her body to help him line up, and a moment later, his face was between her breasts. “Um, okay.” Gaby took a quick, shallow breath. “It’s on the left — your right,” she explained, hating how husky and breathless her voice sounded. Illya’s cock pushed into her thigh now, and she felt him twitch there. She squeezed her eyes shut, even in the dark, to concentrate. “There’s a little knob at the end, like the head of a pin—“

He hummed an acknowledgment, and her body trembled. His lips searched her skin, then the bra as he felt for what she was describing. His body tensed a little when he found it, then his teeth brushed against her as he gripped it and carefully pulled it free. “You got it?” she asked, completely breathless now. He grunted, and she nodded to the darkness. “All right, I will try to turn back around. Just, _don’t drop it_.”

He huffed out a breath, and she imagined him rolling his eyes at her.

It was even more difficult to untwist the knot they had made, and Illya groaned as Gaby’s knee ended up somewhere unfortunate, twice. She had to curl herself into an impossible ball near his head, Illya curled up on the other side of the boot, in order to get his mouth near her hands. She brushed her fingers over his lips, and then he pressed them to her palm, pushing the pick into it.

“Don’t drop it,” he said smartly, his mouth moving on her skin. And Gaby _did_ roll her eyes.

With an air of relief, they shifted into a position that, while still cramped and uncomfortable, was at least less painful. Gaby breathed out a slow, steady breath as she focused on getting the pick into the keyhole of the cuffs. Illya’s stomach was behind her, showing that he had stayed in the lower spot and she was thankful. The pain of their last contortion might have taken the edge off of her arousal, but it wasn’t gone. And she couldn’t imagine that twisting her hands like this at Illya’s groin would be the least bit comfortable for him.

The pick slid into place. Gaby pressed and twisted like Solo had taught her and breathed out a laugh of relief as the first cuff slid free. She brought her hands in front of her, shifting back into Illya instinctively to give herself more space, and quickly freed the other one.

“You got it?” he asked, his voice sounding relieved as well.

The buzz of tires on asphalt changed again, something smoother, and she once more felt the pressure of time on their situation.

“Now you,” she said. He sighed and groaned as he tried to roll over and she realized this was going to be even more complicated than their last maneuver.

“Wait let me try—“

“ _Ой ебать_ —“

“Can you lean toward me?”

“No.”

“Ow! You’re on my hair.”

“Go _up_.”

Gaby curled herself over him, squeezing between his body and the lid of the boot. She felt for his hands, running her own over him. One hand on his arm, the other sweeping over his bare upper thigh, the curve of his ass. She tried not to think about his body as she narrowed in on his wrists.

“Ha, got it!” she called as she felt the latch give way.

Illya twisted his hand loose and Gaby wiggled back into place in front of him again, their legs entangled. Her slip had ridden up to her ribs and one of his hands brushed over the exposed skin of her side, jerking away then returning to settle as he realized there was nowhere else to go. His undershirt must have ridden up too because she felt his skin against her belly as they settled into an, if not comfortable, at least _feasible_ position.

Tangled up with Illya in so many ways. Did she even want anything else?

“How many men were there when they put us in here?” He asked.

“Five — six with their leader.” She moved her hands up his chest, shoulder, then neck, caressing the corner of his jaw. Her blood was rushing in her ears, and it wasn’t the anxiety this time. The small voice that usually tried to warn her off was drowned out by the sudden, clear understanding that, _no_ , she didn’t want it any other way.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Trying to find you.” Reaching his face, she cupped his cheek gently.

“Why?”

She could still barely make out a hint of him before her in the darkness, but she could feel his heart beating against her breast, his light stubble under her fingers.

“So I can do this,” she replied and stretched up to press her lips to his.

He hesitated, then exhaled as he kissed her back. “Gaby,” he murmured. “We are in the trunk of a car.”

“I know.” She kissed him again, savoring the taste of his mouth, the feel of his lower lip between hers.

“We should make plan,” he pointed out, voice rough. He pulled back as much as their space allowed but did not dislodge her hands. “The car could stop any moment.”

“We are in a Ford Popular,” she retorted. “They will probably just drive us straight into the Thames. Besides,” she added, her voice gruff with both want and uncertainty. “Haven’t we been avoiding this long enough?”

He was quiet for several beats, then with a soft breath: “In that case—”

Illya’s hand dragged up her back to press between her shoulder blades beneath her slip. He pulled her more firmly against him and closed his mouth over hers in a deep, fervent kiss. It quieted something inside her even as it made her lips tingle, her body hum with wanting him. 

Gaby clutched his face as she kissed him back. He moaned as she opened for his tongue, letting him taste more of her, then again when she chased after to taste him as well. Illya’s other arm snaked beneath her and cupped her ass, drawing her even closer. One of her thighs was between his and losing circulation, the other was crushed up against the lid of the boot, and she could only imagine what crazy position he was in, but neither of them seemed to care. Gaby dragged her mouth over his jaw and down to his throat; he tipped his head to give her access and banged it against the lid. She hissed, but he just came at her again, nipping at her chin and then her shoulder, his mouth and tongue hot on her skin. He was hard again, against her thigh, and Gaby wanted to grind back against him, but their position was impossible.

There was a thump from the tires rolling beneath them, and the sound changed again, this time to something distinctly like hollowed wood. They broke apart.

“A pier.”

“Or a dock.”

“Get behind me.”

“No, I can’t do anything with you in the way!”

“You will be _protected_!”

“ _Leave_ it, Illya. It’s not happening.”

 _“Fine_.”

He helped her turn and yanked her slip back down before tucking her back against him. She could feel the tension in him, but he let out a gentle breath. His hand was on her belly and his thumb brushed over the satin between them. “You have anything else hiding in your bra?”

“Plenty, but now is _hardly_ the time.”

Illya chuckled as he kissed the back of her head, and she smiled into the dark.

“And, Illya?”

He hummed.

“When this is over, we are coming back to that kiss.”

“Just the one?”

She could hear the catch in his voice even as he tried to make light. She attempted to shrug her shoulders, though there was barely room for it. “One is a good place to start.”

The car slowed and came to a stop, wiping any remaining thoughts from their mind. The engine shut off, and they both tensed. Illya ran a hand along the lid of the boot before pausing. His voice tight, he whispered, “I have an idea but you will have to be quick.”

In the dark, Gaby set her jaw and nodded sharply.

**Act Three**

The creak of car doors opening seemed to echo on the empty pier. The black Ford Popular Deluxe swayed side to side as its passengers disembarked. Complete darkness was kept away only by a few, haphazardly placed lamps,. In the black beyond, water lapped at unseen pylons. 

“We could just drive the car into the river, you know. This thing’s a piece of shite, anyway.”

Four doors slammed, the sound bouncing off the water. The ember of a cigarette flew off to the side.

“Then how would you suggest we figure out who they work for?”

“We already know that. They’re KGB.”

“Shu’up Bill, you think everyone is KGB.”

They gathered near the back of the car, hands in their pockets.

“Just open the boot and get them out” — The one who had been driving nodded to the one who was leaning back on the Ford Popular’s rear fender, and tossed him a set of keys — “and be careful, the big fella might be awake by now.”

The guy scoffed, straightening as he caught the keys. He bounced them in his hand. “What’s he gonna do with cuffs on?” he asked as he shoved the right key into the release. “Jump out at me like an armless Jack-in-the-box?”

He turned the key; the latch clicked open, and the lid of the boot flew upward forcefully, bashing him in the chin. The blow knocked him unconscious. He swayed back and crumpled, but not before a small hand darted out to snatch the gun from his waistband. The boot lid came back down but didn’t latch.

“ _What the hell?_ ” one guy shouted. Two pulled out their guns, the other three moved forward, one toward their companion, the others toward the car as if to investigate.

The boot flew open again and, this time, Gaby opened fire with the pistol, covering Illya as they both clamored out of the car: two determined, pissed off spies — in their underwear.

Solo slammed his foot on the accelerator as the crackling speaker in the police scanner beside him announced: ‘ _shots fired on the south pier.’_ He’d made a hasty but experienced guess when he’d returned to find his partners missing; their mark, Willard Loftus, and his people, a-buzz with suspicion. Their cover had been blown, but Loftus would want to know who had sent them, what they knew—so he wouldn’t kill them right away. Where best to question your suspects than in a warehouse on your private pier? No one around, easy cleanup. His jaw flinched at the thought of his partners’ bodies being tossed lifeless into the roiling water.

 _No_ — if there was gunfire, they weren’t dead.

He fishtailed around the last corner, and slid the stolen Vauxhall into a blocking position to delay the police, who were likely careening toward them that very moment, with sirens blazing. Not only did they not need the exposure, many of the police were in Loftus’s pocket, and it wasn’t a chance they could take.

He jogged the rest of the way, in dress shoes and a suit, his gun at the ready. As he gained the pier, he heard a loud grunt, and the slam of a body against metal. Bracing for a fight, he stepped out, gun raised, and met with a startling sight: Illya Kuryakin, top agent of U.N.C.L.E. and the KGB, standing back from a slumping body he had apparently just finished beating—wearing nothing but a dirt-smudged cotton undershirt and briefs.

“You have the keys?” Illya was saying, and Gaby stepped out from behind the car in a muddied, stained men’s dress shirt that was far too big for her, her legs and feet bare beneath. She held up a set of keys and gave them a jangle.

“Mind if I catch a ride?” Solo called out, relaxing his body into his usual posture as he strode toward them, his shiny black wingtips tapping on the hardwood beneath them.

“There you are, Napoleon,” Gaby called back, looking him up and down as she crossed her arms. “How did you find us?”

“Police scanner. You two on the loose? There was bound to be trouble.”

Gaby leaned a hip against the Ford Popular and grinned.

“It is nice of you to show up, Cowboy,” Illya said, also crossing his arms. 

Solo came to a stop and looked them over, tilting his head to the side and raising his eyebrows. “Was there a memo? I seem to be overdressed.” 

**Epilogue**

Two weeks later, they were in a different city, a different country, a break between one mission and another. A few days of rest to themselves before the next stint of sleepless nights, fake names, and false relationships.

They were even in separate buildings. Illya’s was a safe-house apartment established for one of his cover identities. It gave him more space than a hotel. He could cook his own food, which he preferred, and he could keep a few books and things there that he enjoyed. He was not, however, cooking or reading or enjoying anything. He was pacing the floor, his feet and chest bare, unable to settle into any version of his evening routine. 

Outside the windows an early snow was falling, which cast the city outside in a hush. The radiator in the corner clanked to life, but the Moscow native wasn’t cold. His arms were tense at his sides as he tried not to tap his fingers, while his long strides ate up the small space. Four strides, turn, four strides, turn. It would have been dizzying for anyone forced to watch, but as it was, the only person he was making dizzy was himself. 

Dizzy with the endless thoughts running on repeat through his head. Thoughts of him and Gaby, of what to do about things between them. Not just the incident on the mission, (she had _kissed_ him!) but all the moments that had come before. The urging, the counter excuses, the reasoning. He was trying to track all the angles but it was impossible. 

He remembered waking up in the trunk of the car, those faint moments just before full consciousness, when he had felt her against him and breathed in the scent of her hair, and he had thought, somehow, his most protected dream had come true. Then it turned into hell—right up to the point she had kissed him and said, _“Haven’t we been avoiding this long enough?”_

Illya stopped and took a deep breath. 

Gaby had said they would come back to the kiss when things were over. Things were over now, and she had said nothing since, but she _had_ said it then, and she had been the one to start it, which meant that he should be the one to go to her now. Didn’t it?

But what if she had changed her mind? They had come close to this before, and one or both of them had always pulled back. Had it been by choice? Was it because she didn’t really want it or—impossibly, was Gaby just as scared of what could be between them as he was?

_“Haven’t we been avoiding this long enough?”_

The memory of her words was sufficient to jolt him into action. He started first toward the door for his shoes, remembered he was half undressed and turned back toward the bedroom to find a shirt. That was when there was a knock on the door. 

Frowning, he checked the peephole and saw Gaby standing in the hallway, her head wrapped in a red, snow-speckled scarf. He pulled open the door and stared down at her, stunned.

His life was a tangle of identities and personae, loyalties and allegiances, beliefs and convictions. But the biggest tangle of all was how every piece of him was wound up in the woman standing before him at that moment.

“Are you going to let me in... or is this a bad time?” Her gaze flicked to his chest and back again, once again reminding him that he was half-naked. 

He quickly stepped aside, giving a little shake of his head as he gestured for her to enter. “Of course. Come in.”

Closing the door, his eyes followed her as she entered his space and looked around. She was wearing an emerald scarf and a dark glen-checked overcoat that belted at the waist. “This is a nice place. I like the exposed brick. I’m at the Regal. The bar is dreadful.”

“I am sorry,” he offered uncertainly.

She paused and looked back at him, dangling her handbag by its chain before dropping it over the back of his chair. She then unwrapped the scarf from her head. 

“Is that why you came?” He hadn’t meant to say that; he didn’t know what he had meant to say. His resolute decision of moments ago derailed, he felt at loose ends now that she was before him.

Gaby paused, her hand now on the belt of her coat. “No,” she replied, her voice off in a way he could not put his finger on. She jerked the belt loose of the buckle with a sharp twist. “But I wouldn’t say no to a drink.”

Illya nodded and moved toward the small dusty bar in the corner, unsure of the state it might be in. Her voice stopped him. 

“On second thought, forget the drink.” He turned back around at her tone, eyes fixing on her as she slipped the last button of her coat free. “I just came to return your shirt.” She pulled the garment open to reveal bright red lining, and her body dressed in his white, pleated-front tuxedo shirt.

His shirt shrouded her curves, teasing him with what parts of her he _could_ see, and his gaze swept over her, trying to take it all in. The top buttons, undone, revealed a swath of her tan chest. Rolled up cuffs highlighted her delicate wrist more finely than any bracelet could. His shirt stopped just above her knees and her bare legs stretched out from beneath, gorgeous, toned dancer's legs, her feet clad in a pair of elegant heels that matched the lining of her coat. 

“From the night in the car?” he asked, pointlessly, his voice going soft as a spark of hope stirred to life. He took a couple of steps toward her. “You could have kept it.”

“Yes, well—” She cleared her throat and stripped the coat off the rest of the way. “It looks like you need one.” 

His heart was pounding as she took a step closer to him as well. “Thank you,” he teased gently. “I am very cold.”

“No you’re not,” she returned with a tiny smirk.

He smiled at her. “No. I am not.” Then he frowned, a realization taking hold. “If you give me the shirt… what will you wear?” 

Gaby twisted her fingers in the hem, glanced down the length of his body, then lifted her chin as she started to pull the shirt upward. “That’s the problem—” A final resolve seemed to take hold. She quickly stripped the loose material off over her head, mussing her hair and revealing _exactly_ what her intentions had been from the start. “—I forgot to put anything on underneath.”

Illya lost his breath. Gaby stood naked before him, her slender body lit by the soft glow of a single lamp, all golden skin and delicate curves. She was absolutely perfect. _“Gaby.”_

Her voice wavered a little as she said, “I told you we would come back to that kiss—” but before she had even finished the sentence, he was lifting her up in his arms and carrying her back to the bedroom. Her shoes fell to the hardwood floor, one clack, then another.

Laying her reverently on his bed, he left her only long enough to strip off the rest of his clothing before crawling up to lean over her. His heart was pounding, his body flushed with arousal, torn between touching her and just drinking in the sight of her. Gaby was suffering from no such dilemma. As her gaze took him in, her hands were already reaching for him. They swept up over his chest, caressing his neck before cupping his cheeks. 

“So,” she said with a sly smile. “About that kiss…”

“Is that all you want, _любимая_?” he asked quietly. “A kiss?”

Her smile slipped just a little, and he worried for a moment that he had broken the spell. “No,” she answered, her voice so much softer than usual. “I want everything—”

The words buzzed through him, and his gaze bounced from one of her dark eyes to the other, looking for confirmation. She brushed a thumb over his lower lip. 

“—but a kiss would be a good place to start.” 

_“Yes_ ,” Illya answered and fell to her mouth with a hot, greedy kiss. 

Gaby arched into the pressure, her hands clutching his face and the back of his head. He drew away, and she chased him, biting at his lower lip. He pushed back, sweeping his tongue inside to taste her as she stretched his body out along hers, feeling the heat of her skin, one of her breasts crushed against his shoulder, one of his legs sliding between hers as she pulled him in and kissed him back hard. 

They kissed deeply, long needy presses of lips, sweeps of tongue and clashes of teeth. Gaby’s hands dragged down over his ribs to trace across his hips until she found his cock. She pressed her palms against him, making him groan and, unlike when they were trapped together, he allowed himself to push into that touch. Gaby grinned into the kiss, nipped at his lip and stroked her fingers over him teasingly. 

Illya growled, running his hand up and down her side, caressing her hip and the exposed curve of her ass, her strong, beautiful thigh, to the back of her knee, before dragging it back up over her ribs to cup the breast that wasn’t trapped between them. She gasped as he brushed a thumb over her nipple. He took the break from her mouth and kissed down the side of her jaw, tucked a soft one into the crook of her neck, before nosing his way down to kiss and suck at her collarbone. 

Gaby brought her free hand up to caress the back of his head, and she made a deliciously pleased sound. “This is familiar.”

Illya grinned where he had nuzzled between her breasts and dragged his teeth lightly over the swell of soft flesh. “I have been thinking about it,” he said. “The way I felt your nipple hard beneath all that satin and lace.” Gaby inhaled as he traced the rosy brown areola with the tip of his nose. “How much I wanted to do this—” he closed his mouth over it and pulled it against his tongue.

She moaned, her hand sliding down to clutch at his shoulder. “I wanted you to,” she breathed, and though it should have been obvious, considering where they were right now, it rocketed through him like fire. His desire for her had been fully exposed during the entire ordeal, and there was relief in knowing he had not been alone. “I was so wet,” she said, as if reading his mind. “Even when we were fighting Loftus’s men. I couldn’t stop being aware of it.”

With a soft growl, Illya switched to her other breast, his mouth a little rougher, then he kissed her sternum and pulled away. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I have no intention of going anywhere,” he answered. His voice was gruff, but his touch was gentle as he took her arm and pulled her up onto her side.

“What are you— _oh_ —” Gaby breathed out the last word as Illya grazed his nose up the column of her spine and kissed across her shoulder blades, before settling in and pulling her back against his chest. She huffed out a soft, knowing laugh as he kissed the back of her neck, and brought her hand up to run her fingers through his hair. 

“Is much better when I am not cuffed.” As if to illustrate how much better, his hand came up to take hold of her breast, squeezing carefully and bringing her more firmly against him. 

Gaby hummed. _“Much_ better.” One hand seized his wrist, and the other left his head to slip between them, smoothing small fingers down his belly, sending arousal out to his hips and down to his groin where his cock jumped in anticipation. He shifted his hips backward to give her room. When she reached him, he exhaled at her caress and buried his face in her neck, kissing just behind the crook of her jaw, closing his eyes as she wrapped her fingers around him.

He breathed out her name, and Gaby tipped her head forward to give him more of her neck. Accepting the offering, he used his free hand to push her hair up out of the way so he could kiss and suck along her hairline. A quiet moan escaped him at the stroke of her strong, capable hand on him, and he pressed it into her skin. Her breast was soft and warm in his hand, her nipple hard between his fingers, and he pinched it lightly to test her reaction. She huffed out a breath and squeezed his wrist but she didn’t pull him away, so he did it again. This time she breathed out, “ _Yes_.” 

She was driving him crazy. All he could think about was touching more of her. His free hand swept down her body, caressing her skin with a whisper touch before teasing at the dark curls between her thighs. Gaby opened her legs, and he grasped her knee and pulled it back over his side to open her up to his touch. It made her lose her grip on his cock and she complained, moving her hand to clutch at his back. He pulled her snug against him again, her ass against his belly, and trailed his fingers down the inside of her thigh. It made the muscle there jump, and Illya chuckled, increasing the pressure so as not to tickle her. The noise she made was indignant, but changed to something else when he dragged his fingers over her slit. 

She was so wet it took him by surprise, drawing out a sound of aroused wonder. Gaby emitted a hiss and then, “ _Touch me, Illya_.” He complied with a groan. He parted her easily, her sex slick and hot, and stroked two fingers over her. Her growled _‘yes’_ was enough to let him know how to proceed, and he did it again, drawing the same circle in a steady rhythm as he sucked at her neck, drawing a line of kisses to her shoulder. 

Gaby was not quiet, and it was as much a thrill as a torment. His cock was painfully hard, throbbing where it lay against her inner thigh, leaving a wet trail of pre-come on her skin. He focused on his breathing and her cues, forcing himself not to rut against her and end things far too soon. With a flit of thought, he was happy for the height difference. With her shoulder in his mouth, she was too high for him to push inside her, but he was very aware of just how close he was to the tempting wet heat of her, something he had rarely let himself dream about before now. 

Gaby’s grip on his wrist tightened as the nails on her other hand dug into the upper curve of his ass. She growled and bucked, then almost laughed as she came, her hips jerking under his touch. Without a thought, Illya reached down and pushed his finger inside to feel the clench of her walls, and Gaby cried out again, swearing in German. 

He withdrew his finger and pushed in against the grip of the aftershocks, and her hand dropped to hold him there, pushing against his hand when he withdrew the second time. Taking it as a request for more, he pressed in a second finger. Her hips shunted into the press, and he met her rhythm with a catch of breath as the feel of her, wet on his fingers, sent a sharp pang of need straight to his cock. The skin on his belly grew tight, sweat breaking out at his temple and on the small of his back. 

“Wait,” Gaby growled. Before Illya had managed to respond. She was reaching down to seize his erection where it lay between her thighs. Illya huffed out a breath, not knowing if she wanted to stop or — “I need you inside me.” 

Illya groaned and moved on instinct, positioning himself where she could run the head of his dick over her wet sex. He cursed and breathed her name into her hair as she put him to her entrance and the head slid just inside. Gaby made a wanton sound as she tried to thrust back on him, and Illya clenched his jaw as some part of reality inserted itself into his thoughts. 

“Condom,” he gritted out.

“Birth control,” she said on an exhale, her breath shaky. “Please, Illya.” 

“You want—” he swallowed. “Like this?”

“ _Yes._ ”

With a groan, he surrendered to the rush of need thundering between them and pushed inside. Gaby’s hand flew up to his head, dragging over his hair to curl around his neck. She was panting, the delicate wisps along her hairline clinging to the fine sheen of sweat on her skin. “More,” she demanded, and Illya curled an arm under her knee, pulling it back as he shifted his hips to thrust deeper. 

Illya had not intended to take her in this position; he had only meant to revisit those moments in the car. In the dark, long nights when he had allowed himself to think about how it would be to make love to Gaby, this was not how he had imagined it. Some part of his mind was lamenting the choice, but her burning velvet walls wrapped around him stole any thoughts not centered on the feel of her body, the sounds she was making, the scent of sex, her clean sweat, and the ghost of her perfume surrounding him. Then she turned, just enough that she could tip her head back to bite his chin, pull him down into a sloppy kiss, and he couldn’t think at all. 

He could see down the length of her body, her smooth belly, his arm crossed over her ribs, the bounce of her breasts with each thrust, and the image seared through him. Gaby’s fingers were scrabbling at his neck as she bit her lip and arched her back a little to get the angle she wanted. His cock sank that much deeper, and they both moaned with the pleasure of it. Illya could feel his body racing to the finish and adjusted just enough that he could reach down and stroke her clit again. Gaby huffed, pulling harder on his head as he strummed his fingers over the swollen nub, then she melted into it, her fingers splaying over his cheek as she keened. Illya focused on making perfect steady strokes to keep his own orgasm at bay despite the tingling tightness in his balls, the shake in his thighs. 

Finally, Gaby’s body drew tight like a bow, then released. With a cry, she shook in his arms as her cunt clenched around him. A handful of deep thrusts later, and he followed her, coming hard, his mouth slack against the corner of her jaw. 

When the world righted itself again, Gaby was caressing his cheek lightly. He lifted up to look at her, needing to see her face. Her smile was smug, satisfied, and she turned herself a little more on to her back so she could look up at him; her eyes drowsy, but her expression open and pleased. Illya kissed her, cupping her cheek to angle her up to him, and she sighed into it, kissing him back.

Their kisses were slower now, their touches soft; a tender exchange of assurances and afterglow. When heartbeats had slowed, Illya scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bathroom to clean up. She protested half-heartedly at being carried, but Illya didn’t want to stop touching her. Somehow, setting her down would mean everything was over, and he couldn’t stand the thought. Eventually, however, he had to let go. 

He placed her on the bath mat so her feet wouldn’t be cold.Illya started running water in the sink to get it warm and Gaby went straight to the toilet, using it calmly with him still in the room. He nearly blushed, that act somehow more intimate than anything else they had done together. When she had finished, he handed her a warm, wet cloth, and turned away so she could clean up with some privacy. 

Once they had both seen to the necessities, she turned him around and wrapped her arms around his neck. She looked up at him and he frowned, his hands coming automatically around her waist. “Well,” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Let’s go.” Understanding dawned and, with a soft laugh, he lifted her up, and carried her back to bed.

“Hey,” Gaby said, when they had settled in beside each other, lying face to face. 

“What?” he asked, a small furrow in his brow. 

Gaby touched his cheek. “Just making sure this is really happening,” she said with a laugh. “Perhaps I am just dreaming again.”

“Again?” Illya swallowed. 

Now her smirk was knowing. “You didn’t think you were the only one?” Illya stumbled over some semblance of words, but Gaby slid in closer, her hands folded between them against his chest. This was like inside the car as well, and Illya took a deep breath. 

He slid his arms around her and tugged her just that much closer. “You dreamed about this?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded, stoic, dark eyes fixed on him. “Sometimes I wasn’t even sleeping.”

“Gaby,” he murmured, and she grinned wide enough to show him her dimples. He kissed that smile, the dimples, her chin. _“Stay_.” He said it almost like a prayer, the vowel dragging over his throat. He gazed at her, drinking in her beautiful face, her dark eyes, the curve of her lower lip, the corner of which a smirk was always hiding. “Stay the night.”

“Just the one?” Her voice held a lilt of teasing, but something in her expression changed, her eyes darting between his. 

Illya gazed back at her, soaking in that look in her eyes, longing, hope, love, blooming to life inside him from places he had tried to keep hidden. They both knew the complications that lie in a path forward together, but this part could be simple. This didn’t need to be tangled. They could love each other. _That_ could be simple. 

He smiled softly at her, resolved, and brushed a bit of hair from her cheek. “One is a good place to start.”

Gaby grinned, and kissed him again. 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, RoadHymns! I so hope you enjoyed this bit of trouble for Illya and Gaby. I definitely enjoyed writing it. Hope you have, are having, and did have, an excellent Holiday/s and Happy New Year.
> 
> I made a choice on boot vs trunk. Gaby likely would have learned British English, where as Illya would have probably been taught American English, thus the use of both. (barring author errors...)
> 
> (As usual, google translate was used so sorry for errors.)


End file.
